The Angels Notes
by pippa-writes
Summary: In which Christine de Changy, the mother of two young boys, receives a letter from her long-lost Angel, written over five years prior, and loses herself in written correspondence with him, without her husband's knowing consent. COMPLETED. A quick read for any Phantom phans who have read the Leroux book and want to cry even more.
1. Chapter 1

TAL

Chapter One.

"Madame de Changy?"

I snapped my head up to stare at the maid beside me. Across the table, my husband set his wine glass down with a clink.

"Y... yes?" I said, shaking myself from my trance.

"Post for you, Madame."

I frowned as she handed me the envelope, unable to form words as the silky texture fell into my hands.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper. The maid curtsied - something I still wasn't, and indeed might never be, used to - and left me in the company of my husband and two children at the dinner table.

"Christine," Raoul said as the boys bickered over the last slice of chicken. I looked up from the letter at him. "Dear, you've been staring at your plate for seven whole minutes now. What in the world has taken you so far away from us?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but it closed again just as quickly. Sweet Raoul. Good, kind, _generous_ Raoul; how could I tell him I'd been remembering the sweet, sweet sound of my Angel's voice, the way his fingers drew spellbinding melodies from the pipe-organ in his room, or the horror beneath his mask?

"Nothing much," I smiled, leaving the last of my trance. I set the letter aside and tidied up my cutlery. "I was simply... thinking about Christopher's birthday."

"It's my birthday too!" Philippe whined, shaking my arm. "Maman, tell him! Tell Christopher it's my birthday just as much as his!"

"Boys," Raoul said, putting the firmness I'd been teaching him to use into practise.

"It is both of your birthdays," I smiled, combing Philippe's silky golden hair back with my fingers. He grinned a toothy smile. "Five years old," I chuckled. "My, my, you two are growing up fast!"

Raoul lifted his wine glass to his lips again, his eyes smiling at our two handsome boys, who looked just like the little Vicomte I remembered from my early years.

A rush of exhaustion washed over me.

"Oh, forgive me!" I moaned, my head falling into my hand. Raoul stood, his chair scraping the hardwood floor.

"Christine-!"

"I'm alright," I insisted, waving him back to his chair. "I simply feel overwhelmed. I think I should retire for the night. Will someone fetch Caitlin to braze my bed?" Caitlin was my Irish-born maid, staying with us to earn for her starving family across the waves. "Ask her to light the fireplace in the master bedroom. Christopher, you're young and strong: run and fetch her, child!"

The eldest twin hopped down from his chair and disappeared into the servants' hall at top speed.

"Christine-" Raoul said again, ignoring my instructions to sit back down and coming to my side. I snatched up the letter as he took my hand, his free one on the small of my back. He walked me to the stairs in the hall, helping me up one at a time to the master bedroom on the landing.

"Dearest, what's the matter?"

I sat on the bed, propping myself against the headboard, and stared up at the canopy above me. An overwhelming sense of guilt flooded my senses. I'd started having these headaches and rushes of guilt when the boys had their third birthday and seen a man in a cloak and hat that looked remarkably like my Angel. Guilt that I'd left a dying man with severe heartbreak, ready to perish at any moment, and not looked back. Guilt that I'd hated his entire being, his very soul, when he wouldn't relent his decision to marry me. Guilt had built up over the past five years within me, and I'd only realised why two years ago. It hadn't been this bad at first, but now...

"Get some rest," Raoul said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I sat there, not moving, as he headed for the door. It creaked open a little way, then: "I worry about you, Little Lotte."

The door closed.

I grabbed the letter from the dresser and tore it open, scrabbling with the paper until it unfolded in my hands. I wasn't sure why I was being so secretive with the contents. Perhaps the envelope jogged a hidden memory, or perhaps I was simply paranoid.

But what I read sent shivers to the depths of my very soul.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two. Enjoy!

* * *

The letter was crumpled and dated for April 18th, 1881, nearly five years ago. In fact, just a few days after I'd left the Opera for good. What was the matter with the postal system these days? Just the other week Raoul had received the receipt for a purchase of a new carriage he'd bought well over a year ago.

In the dim light of the candle, the words, fairly faded enough already, were nearly impossible to read by now. But I would always recognise my Angel's writing, the childish scrawl of a man who'd learned to read and write by himself.

It read as such:

 _April 18th, 1881._

 _To my dear Christine,_

 _What to say to you at this time? I know you already resent receiving this letter, but, alas, I must write it all the same._

 _I cannot apologise enough. I understand you will scoff at that. It was a silly thing to write. But still, the agony I'm experiencing compels me too write at least a short letter of apology:_

 _I am truly sorry for both deceiving and detaining you. You cannot even begin to imagine my remorse when I remember your face, which was always so gentle and cheery, turning bitter and disgusted during our last hours._

 _Oh, Christine! What can I say? I can never apologise enough for what I did. Yet, does it matter a dot? No matter what I write, I forbid you to remember your lessons with any sort of happiness, in the knowledge that I was deceiving you all along._

 _Sweet Christine, who was always so good and lovely: you will never leave my heart. Wherever I am, your music will sing to me. But I beg you, forget mine, for I cannot bear to think of your beautiful voice tainted by that of Death himself._

 _I wish you every joy in your marriage. The Vicomte, despite my first prejudices, is most worthy of you. It brings me overwhelming comfort to know you will live out your years, which I pray will be many, in each other's company. Your children will be Angels, beautiful Angels, perfect in every way that I never was. Look after them, my sweet. And never, pray promise me - promise your poor, unhappy Erik - tell them of your horrid Angel of Death. Do not taint them with my memory._

 _Ah, Chrissy, my good sweet girl. Remember me not, even in your dreams forget me. I will die soon, and then you will finally be rid of your Demon of Music._

 _I am, again, truly sorry for your troubles._

 _Sincerely,_  
 _Your loyal Erik._

I folded the letter into thirds once more, only now noticing the splashes of tears on the paper. My cheeks were indeed damp with sorrow, but a quick brush over the paper revealed that these ones had dried long ago.

Oh, poor, unhappy Erik! Poor, unfortunate creature.

I held the letter for a few minutes, rereading it over and over until I could hear Erik's voice begging for mercy, his pleas growing louder and louder. I looked at the tear stains and suddenly I could hear his crying as he folded it into thirds, put it into an envelope and sealed it.

I hurried from the bed to the dresser, finding a pen, ink pot and some paper. I couldn't leave it like this! It was bad enough the letter was five years late! He could be dead by now.

He probably already was.

I brushed away a shiver and dipped the pen.

 _February 22nd, 1886_

 _To my loyal Erik,_

 _You are not forgotten. If you are still alive, if you still love me as you confessed you did, then be silent no more. I have enclosed my address for you, should you accept to reply_.

 _Your letter, I should explain, arrived just today. I can only blame it on the postal service. It brought tears to my eyes and soul to read your words._

 _Sincerely,_

 _You dear Christine._

 _(Vicomtess de Changy.)_

"Christine!" I jumped at the sound, turning back to the door. Raoul closed it behind him and walked over to me, placing the candle he was holding next to mine. I turned the letter over, as not to let him see what I'd written. "You promised you'd rest!"

He took the pen from my hand and set it down next to the ink pot, which he capped. Taking my arm with a kind firmness, he pulled me slowly to my feet and brought me back to bed.

"I need to go and see Mama Valerius tomorrow," I whispered as he tucked me into bed, the sheets around my chin. Raoul climbed in beside me with a tired sigh, his arms circling around my torso. He pressed a kiss to my neck and rested his face there. "It's why I was writing that letter. She needs me at her bedside."

"If it's what you must do, so be it," he whispered back, stroking the back of my hand. "I shall go with you—"

"No!" He froze at how quickly I'd answered and propped himself up on his elbow behind me. "No, Caitlin will be all I require."

"Well, promise me you'll wear your warm dress," he sighed, laying back down. "I don't want you to catch your death of cold."

"I promise."

Raoul kissed my neck again and snuggled against me. Soon, his breaths turned to shallow little snores. But I remained wide awake. I'd lied to my beloved husband, a lie so terrible and deep in our past that I couldn't imagine what would happen if the truth emerged.

A pair of stars outside kept me awake for another two hours, shining down on me, knowing my secret. They knew where I'd be tomorrow. They'd follow and watch, muttering amongst themselves in the heavens as I betrayed the promise I'd made never to see or talk of Erik again.

Poor, unhappy Erik. And poor, unknowing Raoul.


	3. Chapter 3

I slipped out of bed before Raoul could rise the next morning and called for Caitlin, who scurried up as fast as she could with my travelling dress. She helped me into it and combed my hair into its neat tresses like she did every morning.

But this dawn would not see me head down to breakfast and her to her morning tasks, no. My dawn would be quite different to my children's and husband's.

My concierge ordered the driver to prepare the carriage and, by seven in the morning, after checking in on my children and kissing them goodbye as they slept, Caitlin and I were headed for Paris.

We exchanged very few words, except when I asked for the driver to hurry and ran through a list of items I would have the girl buy to make it look like I'd been busy shopping, especially for the boys' birthdays.

The cold morning had fully broken by the time we reached the city, the streets already swarmed with women in their dresses and bustles and men in hats, canes tapping along with their steps.

The driver stopped along the _Rue de l'Opéra_ and the footman opened the door for us. Caitlin got out before me to help me out. I clutched my letter in its envelope and picked up my dress before it could dirty itself in the horse muck at the side of the road.

"Do you have the list?" I asked Caitlin while the driver clicked to the horse and went to find a resting place for them both. Caitlin nodded and took it from her pocket. "Good. We shall meet here in two hours. If I'm not here by then..."

What would I do if Erik was alive, if he wasn't so heartbroken now as before? I was unchaperoned but for my maid, and I could hardly drag her down with me if Erik appeared in a rage. He could do any number of things!

 _No_ , I scolded myself, quite prepared to kick myself in the shin. Erik, for all he was quite, quite, mad, wouldn't hurt me. He had thrown himself at my feet and begged for love. Surely a man as broken as he couldn't lift a finger against the object of his affection.

But that was five years ago, and a lot had happened between that day in the House on the Lake and now.

I trekked up the Rue. The Palais Garnier loomed before me, so intimidating nowadays that I couldn't quite bear to look at it. I kept my eyes on my shoes, heart hammering in my throat. There were still residents in the Opera House, so the doors would be open. But how could I just walk into the place without a lawful reason to, and, whats more, go beyond the public space?

What if my dressing room was occupied?

 _Nonsense! Erik would never let anyone stay there anymore!_

But what if Erik was no longer there?

By now, I found myself before the steps to the front door. No, it was too big a risk!

But what about one of the many _secret_ entrances? I touched the key around my neck. It never left its chain there - superstition, I suppose - and it unlocked the gate in the Rue Scribe he'd once shown me...

Before I could lose anymore resolve, I hurried around to the street. I glanced over my shoulder, waiting for the perfect moment when no prying eyes would discover my secrets, for my secrets were Erik's secrets, and Erik's secrets concerned no one but himself.

I slipped the key into the lock and turned it, wincing when it clicked a bit too loudly. The gate swung open with a loud screech. I bit my lip, turning to check the faces of a few passing Parisians. But they remained stony and oblivious, chins tucked into their coats against the wind, hats pulled low. It wasn't very suitable weather for women, not when it was so cold.

I slipped into the passage and pushed the gate closed as softly as I could. Erik had once shown me the way from the House on the Lake to this exit, pointing out the path to my dressing room along the way. Now, if I could just remember which path...

I started along the passageway, lighting a torch as I went. There was no other light, but as I went I heard the giggles and voices of cast and crew members over my head. Was this how Erik saw the world? So close, but always too far, too hidden, with him always beneath the floorboards.

The passage was narrow, damp and dark. A few candles remained in their holders, but they clearly hadn't been lit in years and had gathered a lot of dust. I felt my way along for the most part, the torch already dying. Going to the House with so little fuel left would be suicide, so I steered for a path that jogged a vague memory, almost as if Erik were there ahead of me, guiding me and showing me all of his wonderful and awful mysteries.

The stone here was somewhat darker than it had been a few hundred paces back, almost as if it had been burned. I swallowed. Indeed, when I ran my hand over it, it was. I wondered if they'd ever tried to rebuild this part of the building. If they had, surely they would have found a passageway, and found Erik at the end of it, for all tunnels led to the House, for better or for worse.

The dying light shone back at me all of a sudden. I reached out and put my hand against the cold glass of a mirror, which should, if I pressed it right, turn on its axis...

There it was! The mirror turned and suddenly I was five years younger. I'd found my dressing room.

It was just as I'd left it. Even the pictures on the vanity table that I'd never collected remained. The furniture was as it should be and the candles hadn't burned down in the slightest. The only difference was the thick layer of dust that had descended and settled amongst my possessions.

I sat on the stool before the table, looking over the dim room with fondness and heartbreak. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, much older than before and weathered by the process of mothering and raising the children. Behind me, the big mirror I'd come through, through which Erik had taught me and admired me.

If I'd looked closer at that reflection, I would have seen the amber eyes peering back at me from the mirror. But I was too transfixed on the other difference in the room.

There, on the vanity table where I'd always kept my copy of the latest libretto or dance instructions, lay a single red rose, the thorns cut from it with precision. I picked it up and lifted it to my nose, inhaling the smell I always thought I'd go to my grave without knowing once more. It was a real rose, not a fake one left here years ago.

And that meant Erik was alive. He was here recently enough because it hadn't withered in the slightest.

I put the letter down on the table, blowing the dust off and tracing in the remainder: _To my Angel of Music._

With that, I stood from the stool and headed for the mirror again, bringing the rose with me. One last look over my shoulder...

We were very much the same, this room and I. We'd both aged and were past the beauty of our younger, more exquisite days. I managed a soft smile and stepped through into the passageway. It would be a long time before I saw that room again, if ever.

A rush of goosebumps pricked my skin, a cool, stale breeze chilling me through. I pulled my shawl a little tighter around me and fetched the torch, which had, curiously enough, been heaped with more fuel.

I didn't look over my shoulder at the shadows that crept behind me but took the torch and headed back up the passageway. A shimmer of sunlight up ahead barely caught the damp stone floor.

The almost inaudible rustling of fabric made me stop still. I stared at the little patch of light for a moment, almost shaking my head at his amateur mistake. Turning carefully, I looked back down the passageway.

He was looking at the letter in shock, and when his glowing eyes wandered up to find me watching him two hundred yards ahead, he caught his cloak and, flicking it in a wide arc, disappeared into the darkness behind him.

 _"Au revoir, mon Ange,"_ I whispered, turning away again and suppressing a smile. "Or should I say, _salut_?"

It was time to go back anyhow; Caitlin would need my help in finding certain presents for the children, and even Erik would understand my desire not to let them down.

For Erik, though he was a cold man of darkness and secrecy, was more than capable of understanding a mother's love, for he had once loved with a bond of similar power.


	4. Chapter 4

_To my dear, wonderful, talented, good, sweet, dear Christine!_

That first line had been scribbled out, but I managed to make most of it out beneath the ink. This new letter had arrived just this morning, a full week after my visit to 'Mama Valerius'. Raoul was still none the wiser that I'd been back to my dressing room, and Caitlin was keeping silent on pain of losing her job if she so much as uttered a word of Paris. I'd waited patiently for a response, but slowly, over the course of the past two days, my hope had been wearing thin.

Why would he reply? After five years, no less! Why did I even _want_ him to? Surely that was adultery of the heart somehow! But he did, and when Caitlin presented me with my post this morning, my heart soared.

But then Christopher spilled his milk all down his front and that needed to be attended to.

The actual first line read, and continued, as such:

 _April 20th, 1886_

 _To Christine,_

 _I have no words. Under what spell have you entranced me? Even after two days, I am still not able to speak. My precious cat has grown rather annoyed with me now and has taken to flouncing away whenever I enter a room, as she thinks I'm purposefully ignoring her when she catches me staring into the void of desolate loneliness and—_

 _What am I saying? I'm doing this all wrong. Forgive me, Christine!_

 _I'd given up hope that you'd ever reply. I should never have expected it in the first place, I'm not sure why I did... Oh forgive me, this letter sounds dreadfully weepy and dreary, don't you agree?_

I couldn't help but giggle at that, imagining him sitting at his desk, scratching his head and writing whatever came to mind first. This was perhaps his twentieth draft and the rubbish bin might well be overflowing with balls of paper by now. I turned the gaslamp down just a touch as someone passed in the corridor, curling up under the covers of my bed like a naughty boarding schoolgirl reading after bedtime. Erik's writing, though rushed and childish, was beautiful all the same, written in his finest black ink.

 _You must forgive me for the stain on the bottom of the page. The cat knocked my hand as I was writing. I am now attempting to think of how to weave words together, put them on the paper and stroke this creature's back all at the same time, for which I am certain she will never show her gratitude._

 _I saw you in the tunnels the other day. Oh, forgive me, that was rather blunt, was it not? I beg your pardon for not staying or calling to you: the shock of seeing you in person caused my flight from the quarters, not disrespect or rudeness, though I can claim to be the opposite of neither. For so long, I have seen you everywhere: in your dressing room, in your bedroom here where Ayesha (the cat) has made her new living place, the stage, everywhere._

 _Oh dear, I've done it again, haven't I? If those years we shared didn't frighten you away for good as I'd believed for so long, this letter - if one may call this mess of literature a letter - certainly shall!_

 _I have enclosed the address to which you must send your replies - if you are not utterly repulsed by me by now -, if any. My dear friend - I trust you remember the old Daroga? - or his servant will deliver them to me and post my replies to you, in the hopes they will not be so late this time._

 _If I may be so bold to enquire after your general wellbeing and family?_

 _Your ever faithful_  
 _Erik._

The stain was indeed there, with a little arrow pointing to it that read: _Blasted feline fiend!_

I giggled to myself, touching the splash of dried ink, unable to help but imagine Erik fanning the sheet up and down, trying to dry it before he could smudge it with his thin hand as Ayesha watched on from his desk, an evil and amused glint to her slit eyes.

The door creaked open slightly. I froze beneath the sheets, my back to it, and watched as the light of the candles outside seeped into the room, illuminating the far wall and curtains. It closed just as quietly. I laboured my breath slightly and closed my eyes, hiding the letter under my pillow as carefully as I could. The bed sank behind me and the sheets rustled as Raoul swung his feet up into bed and pulled them around himself.

He reached over to quench the gaslamp and fell back into place behind me, shuffling slightly then sighing, his arms draped around my torso as he did every night. He kissed my neck softly, as not to 'wake' me and whispered a hushed ' _Je t'aime'_ , before dozing off within a few minutes.

But an hour later, with him snoring quietly by my ear, I was still feeling the rushes of glee Erik's letter had brought me. As gently as I could, I slipped out of Raoul's arms and sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to let it creak too loudly when I stood, my nightgown falling past my knees. I leaned back down and kissed his forehead, tucking the covers back around his chin.

He mumbled something in his sleep and the traces of a smile appeared on the furthest corners of his lips. I took a moment to admire him, my wonderful husband, whose golden hair fell around his face in floppy locks and painted his pillow with new patterns. The smooth planes of his cheeks and straight nose caught the faint half-moonlight that managed to seep through the thin curtains, turning his mustache a pale silver.

I smiled and took the gaslamp from the bedside table, carrying it across the room to the little writing desk I'd had installed when I was pregnant and couldn't walk very far, but bored enough to wish to write to various acquaintances.

It had been Raoul's idea to write to them in particular.

Still, it had its uses. I sat at the desk and lit the gaslamp slightly, enough to let me find some paper, ink and a pen amongst my diary jottings.

I reread Erik's letter and smiled, knowing already what I would write.


	5. Chapter 5

_April 27th, 1886._

 _To my ever faithful Erik,_

 _It's quite late as I write this but Raoul is asleep in this room so I daredn't turn the gaslamp up. Please excuse my writing should it begin to slope. I do hope Ayesha doesn't cause you much trouble these days. She must have been glad to see the last of me however!_

 _I awaited your letter with great anticipation throughout the week. As the days went by, I found myself quite disappointed that there was no sign of such a thing existing in the first place. How joyful I was to hold it in my hands this very morning! I have just this evening found time to myself to read it, for Raoul knows nothing of our correspondence, nor do any of the maids or manservants, and I cannot very well tell my children, can I?_

 _I have two sons now, twins whose fifth birthdays are fast approaching. I have the honour of telling you, dear Erik, that they are already displaying the kindness and chivalry I would expect of a modern gentleman. They both keep fine heads of slightly curly blond hair and Raoul and my blue eyes. Indeed, they are practically identical, but for the fact that Christopher seems to be growing better than his younger brother, Phillippe._

 _And yet I already see the differences in their characters: Christopher is a fine little musician, capable of playing almost any instrument handed to him within the week. I say almost because he cannot quite lift the trombone Count Marius Desrosiers gave him the other month. Phillippe on the other hand loves nothing better than to go for Sunday walks in the nearby countryside, and will often sit in the grass to observe the scenery and simply think. A very thoughtful, perhaps philosophical, young boy is our Phillippe._

 _Might I ask after the current state of the Opera? And of Madame Giry, who was always good to me and granted me one boiled sweet from the little boxes you gave her whenever she found a new one awaiting her? And what of her daughter?_

 _Oh dear! Raoul has stirred! I must attend to him now, for I dread to think what he might do if he were to find your letter. It is not my safety I worry about, for Raoul would never lift a finger against me, but it is yours I fear for._

 _Adieu, Erik. Stay safe and well for_

 _Your friend,_  
 _Christine._

 _(Vicomtess de Changy)_

 _~•~•~•~_ _•_ _•_ _•_

 _May 5th, 1886._

 _To my friend Christine,_

 _I cannot nearly express my joy through written words! To hear of your children filled me with with such comfort. What better mother could they have than you, my dear? If Christopher should need lessons, I shall always be available. But I doubt you would send your own child down to me in this filthy house now. I shall simply have to hear his music through your words. Describe it carefully, my sweet; you hold my inspiration and muse in your precious hands, you always have._

 _Do not intrude on young Phillippe's inward ways, for many great minds came from childhood trances much like his. Simply allow him to look, to see and hear and think. He shall grow to be quite the intelligent man._

 _If I may be so bold as to offer advice, from a man whose own mother shunned him? Show your children love, unconditional love. Kiss them everyday, even if they become rather heavy burdens at times. If you cannot bring yourself to do so on the hardest days, do so in my name. I shall not live to see any child of my Angel growing to be like me._

 _As for Mme Giry and her daughter, the former is, quite sadly, now deceased. The Little Giry however was married just last year, and has adopted the title of Emperess! It is just as I predicted! She writes on the odd occasion; I do believe she is preparing for childbirth nowadays. A very happy time for her, I am sure. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like with a child of my own, but I laugh it off with Daroga more often than not; could you even imagine a child in my arms, in my protection? One might as well give a mouse to a snake to look after!_

 _I have no business in the Opera anymore. I keep to myself Down Below and do not complain or demand my salary. On the odd occasion, I will take my seat in Box Five, but no longer fight for it otherwise, for I feel much too old to play the tricks of my youth now. I have simply resorted to letting them all be, even if the acting-managers_ do _choose mediocre works to perform._

 _I have restrained myself - or rather, the Daroga has restrained me - from marching up and handing over my_ Don Juan Triumphant. _A wise idea from a wise man, as usual._

 _I must, rather regrettably, leave this letter here, for I am dangerously low on paper and must ask Darius to fetch some more in the meantime. Ayesha sends her cold regards, as does the Daroga._

 _I remain, my dear,_

 _Your humble admirer,_  
 _Erik._


	6. Chapter 6

_May 11th, 1886._

 _Dear Erik,_

 _I apologise for the lateness of my reply. The children's birthday fell during the past two weeks and Raoul simply insisted on inviting as many people as he could fit into the dining hall. I'm not too sure if the boys appreciated all the company, but their attention was soon diverted to the multitude of presents addressed to them._

 _The party itself was a great success, if one ignores Christopher's antics involving his fork, a piece of veal and the Countess de Roseville's dress. Sometimes I wonder if, somehow, he has inherited your..._ creative _nature, if it were at all possible. Phillippe on the other hand was a perfect angel and accepted every one of his gifts with utmost gratitude. I'm so very proud of them both (Christopher was given a stern talking to by Raoul, in case you were to wonder)!_

 _For all the room was packed however, I couldn't help but feel slightly lonely, as I'd just received your letter and had only had time to read half. Everywhere I looked, I would see your black mask and cloak, which made me feel rather guilty for not at least_ inviting _you._

 _I must confess: I have not been in the best of health these past two years. I do not wish to alarm you, but there have been times where I feel so consumed by guilt that I cannot even get out of bed in the-_

I brought the pen away from the paper and sighed. Could I even finish that sentence? After all Erik had done to me, to Raoul, to hundreds of other people, I found myself able to confide in him like no other, not even my darling husband. And that scared me.

I loved Raoul with all my heart. If I were to repeat the past eight years, I would choose him everytime and would flee with him before I could sing that accursed line in _Faust._ But it was how I had treated Erik that kept me awake at night, lulled me into trances at the dinner table and distracted me while Raoul was courting me in the gardens on our strolls. Sometimes, all I could see was _him,_ and all I could hear was _his_ cries as he clutched the hem of my dress. I would cower from strangers occasionally, seeing _his_ black mask for a moment.

My poor, unhappy Erik was making me a poor, unhappy Christine. It was the same when I watched my children playing with their little wooden soldiers and horses on the floor in the sitting room, and a surge of pride and love would wash through me like a wave at the beach in Perros-Guirec. How could a mother hate her child? How could she force a mask on his face and refuse to see him without it? How could she shun him and bar him from her heart? It baffled me now, much more than when I'd been unmarried and childless.

 _Please, Erik, do not worry for me. I simply felt guilty about leaving you without a second thought. Now, I cannot condone your actions. I shall never forget the weeks of doctor's appointments and bedrest my husband required after his time in your wicked torture chamber. And yet I cannot unsee the broken man behind your mask, who wept and wept for me, whom I kissed on the forehead, cried with and called my poor, unhappy Erik._

 _The children send their regards to you. Christopher found one of your letters that must have slipped from my diary in my room and I've had to bribe him to keep quiet. He really is too much like you at times: I am now paying a princely, weekly fee for his growing wooden soldier collection. I do suppose there are worse things for a young man to spend his money on._

 _I do hope Ayehsa, the Daroga and Darius keep you on your toes. You were never one to be idle for more than a day. And please do not perform your Don Juan! I fear for the minds of every Parisian within a three mile radius and the nobility of neighbouring counties in attendance!_

 _Your friend,_  
 _Christine._

I breathed a long sigh and slid the letter into the awaiting envelope without thinking of what was on it. The dinner bell rang downstairs and, clutching the envelope, I walked down to meet my family, passing it to Caitlin for her to deliver in secret in the morning when she went grocery shopping.

It would be yet another week of waiting and pretending. Raoul filled my wine glass for me with a smile as the first course invited us to its warm, soupy smell.

Had Erik ever eaten at a table such as this, in a room as grand and long as this, with cutlery so shiny a magpie would kill for it?

I caught Caitlin's eye as she hurried away to help with the next course. She kept going, pressing her lips into a tight line and sorting through her messy, brunette bun of hair.

That was when I began to dread Erik's response.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik's POV

* * *

 _May 17th, 1886_

 _Christine de Changy,_

 _How can you demand I do not worry for you? Do you not realise how frightened I was to read your words? Of course I worry, you silly little-_

 _ **No. No, I cannot write such a thing.**_

 **I screw the paper into a tight ball and toss it over my shoulder, where it lands with a rustle amongst the hundreds of other letter drafts I've thrown away throughout the years. Christine is taking up most of them.**

 **I grab my face in my palms and cry for a long time after that. I'd ruined the poor child. I'd clipped away at her mind until she was simply a dim light behind an elaborate lampshade. She was having such dreadful episodes of what I could only assume was untreated trauma. Because of me.**

 _May 17th, 1886_

 _My dearest,_ _Christine de Changy,_

 _Oh Christine, my child! How can you ask me not to worry? Have I left you so tortured? Have I haunted you long after I promised to stop? Sweet Christine! Why you?_

 **Why her indeed? If it were at all possible, I'd hold her until every bit of remorse seeped from her mind into mine, that I might take her burden, which should have been mine in the first place. But possible is the one thing it's not. I am no more her husband than I am her Angel, and I shudder at the thought of** _ **that**_ **result.**

 **It is not my place to comfort her, not my right to hold her. I can only trust the Vicomte. But trust in these days is in rather short supply.**

 **As I sit hunched over, my chair pushed away from the desk, Ayesha rubs against my legs and mews loudly. I sigh, taking my hands from my ghastly face - if one can find their voice enough after observing it to call it as much - and leaning back in the chair.**

 **"You're just as insane as I," I mutter as she chases a floating piece of dust. I pat my leg, catching her attention. "Here, Ayesha. You shall be my muse."**

 **She looks less than pleased with that, but jumps into my lap all the same, using my leg as a scratching post for a moment until I flick her ear.**

 **"What would you say,** _ **petit chat?**_ **" I sigh, fondling her small head with the pieces of bone I have been granted as fingers. She glares at me over her shoulder and hops up onto my desk, the little bell I fashioned for her collar jingling away, driving me further into insanity than I already am. "Of course. I shan't take** _ **your**_ **advice then."**

 **I look back at the letter, sigh, and dip my pen, ready to resume at last.**

 _I do recall begging you not to worry in a previous letter. Please, my Christine, if I must hire a cab and have the driver push the steed into a gallop so I may fall at your feet and beg for your good, sweet nature to grace this earth once more, make no mistake, I should do so in a heartbeat._

 **I read that paragraph through and contemplate bashing my head off the table at how childishly lovesick it sounds. I, a murderer, a killer, a monster, am pouring my heart out in the** _ **Langue d'Amour**_ **without shame. What have I come to?**

 _Please, tell me more about your life and how happy you are. Tell me of the banquets and flowers and gowns, of the terrible gossip and the amorous ways of high society. It shall be my portal into your world, which I hope will make you happier, to share your experiences. And, I pray, tell me of Christopher and Philippe and Raoul! For as long as you are happy, I can be content with my existence and live a week longer, if only to read your words._

 _From your fondest, and utterly terrified,_  
 _Erik._

 **I shove the letter into an addressed envelope before I can spare a second thought to its contents and seal it, only remembering to breathe when all is said and done.**

 **Ayesha glares at me accusingly and hops off the table, stalking away to the Louis-Philippe room.**

 **"You're just jealous!" I call after her. Just to spite me, she flicks her tail haughtily and disappears down the hall.**


	8. Chapter 8

_I do recall begging you not to worry in a previous letter. Please, my Christine, if I must hire a cab and have the driver push the steed into a gallop so I may fall at your feet and beg for your good, sweet nature to grace this earth once more, make no mistake, I should do so in a heartbeat._

I nearly cried when I read that sentence, because it was at that moment that my wild imagination and I envisioned Erik, in his black mask, his cloak and his suit, jumping from a speeding carriage, sprinting across the lawn and throwing himself at my feet before this marble bench in the vast expanse of the de Chagny House garden. But when I opened my eyes, I was reminded that my fantasies remained locked away inside my overreacting mind.

I was sitting outside in the garden when Caitlin brought me the day's post, reading a copy of a book by a Monsieur V. Hugo, which wasn't very suitable for a lady, but amused me all the same.

Caitlin didn't ask when I threw the book down beside me and snatched the letter, tearing it open and pulling out its contents. She simply bit her lip, curtsied and headed back indoors.

Now, as I sat at my writing desk, tapping my dry pen against the table, I was hit with too many thoughts to put down on paper.

 _May 22nd, 1886._

 _To my fondest Erik,_

 _I appreciate your concern, but I must ask again that you do not worry too much for me. My life here is the stuff of childhood dreams. It is a life like this that I would imagine you would have led, had nature been fair to you._

 _Banquets are seldom held at this House, but, with so many families of higher names in France, there are always celebrations somewhere, or courting seasons, festivals, baptisms, weddings and every other type of event worthy of good food and wine you can think of! One does get quite tired of it all after some time however. There are, afterall, only so many social outings one can bear per month._

 _The gossip you ask for is plenty. There are stories of adultery almost every week, and it is being speculated that a certain Count's cousin managed to shoot his poor friend in a row over his fiancée! Of course, you will remember that gossip never really interested me. Still, I find certain stories, however wild and ridiculous, to be quite enthralling and exciting! Even if they are not true (and some I hope are not!) they still provide ten minutes of chat between my friends and I._

 _There was once a rumour that the Opera Ghost had been sighted in Paris, purchasing a casket of ginger spices at a market stall. Naturally, all attention turned to me for a few weeks. I did wonder if it was you at all, as you've never usually allowed yourself to be seen, let alone recognised. That was three years ago._

And two weeks later, I'd begun to have those dreadful headaches and shed mournful tears, for the stranger at the twins' birthday seemed to confirm my fears of Erik's living. Still, I couldn't very well put _that_ in my letter, so I dipped my pen once more and continued.

 _I find myself compelled to point out that, in your previous letter, you misused a comma. I'm afraid it changed the meaning of the sentence entirely and I don't quite understand. You see, you wrote 'My dearest, Christine' and not 'My dearest Christine,". Did you mean to consume all my thoughts with this single flick of your pen or was it a mere mistake of the hand?_

 _Anyhow, I must tell you about little Philippe. You'll never guess, but his governess told me just yesterday that he has been accepted to join a prestigious school quite near Paris (forgive me, the name escapes my mind. Perhaps I shall write it at the bottom of this letter if I remember)! As for Christopher, he is to be sent to an academy of music in September!_

 _Though I am proud of them - how could I not be? - I cannot help but wonder how they will manage without each other, for they are the most amiable of companions and spend every waking hour playing Revolutions on the carpet with those accursed soldiers Christopher is officially 'collecting'. Collecting, I say, with the money he's robbing me of in exchange for his silence in regards the secret correspondence I share with you. And he is not yet even six years of age, the little monkey!_

 _I do hope you are keeping well! When the boys start school this Autumn, I shall be sure to write to you with the progress reports their teachers will post to Raoul. I know you are interested in their lives, which fills me with a sort of comfort. Raoul is practically bouncing off the walls with glee and I find it quite pleasant to relay my thoughts to you by letter, where I am not interrupted every two sentences by someone grabbing me and spinning me in excitable, ballroom circles around the dining room._

 _I remain,_  
 _Your Christine._

 _Postscript: Marius Desrosiers has even promised to pay for part of Christopher's schooling in the hopes of being a future patron! Can you imagine my little boy on the Opera Garnier's stage? How magnificent that day will be, with you watching from Box Five on the grand tier and I from the box opposite with Raoul! I look forward to it! Adieu, mon ange, adieu for now._


	9. Chapter 9

"You've been pacing that floor for three hours, Christine," Raoul said over the top of his newspaper. "Do sit down before you collapse, darling!"

"Oh, forgive me," I mumbled, taking a seat at the piano. I stared out of the window behind my husband, the light by which he was reading flooding into the sitting room. In the garden, two robins fought over a worm.

I clutched my dress folds and tapped my foot against the dark wood floorboards. Raoul sighed quietly and turned his page.

"I wonder if the boys are alright," I said, standing again and moving towards the door.

"The children are perfectly well," Raoul said, closing his paper and leaving it on the little table beside the chair. "It is you I worry about, Little Lotte."

"Me?" I squeaked, pacing back to the piano and running my hands over a specific set of keys. "Why, Raoul!"

He reclined in his seat, sinking back into the cushioned backrest, studying me carefully. "There's something quite different about you, my dear. You're never so nervous as this. Tell me, is it because of the boys' schooling? Is that what worries you?"

"Yes!" I said, a bit too quickly, which caused my husband to frown slightly. "Yes, I suppose... I simply worry."

"I assure you they will be fine come September," he chuckled, standing from his armchair and pacing over to me. He caught my arm gently, turning me to face him and taking me in his warm arms. Even after our years together, his embraces never failed to draw a sigh of content from my lips, and I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet honey-suckle scent of my husband, who always loved to walk the gardens at this time of year.

"Why Raoul, it is simply a natural part of being a mother, to worry for one's children! And they are still so young..."

"Young, but sensible," he corrected, pulling away gently and smoothing a lock of my blonde hair back behind my ear. His hands trailed down my arms a little way, leaving a trail of sparkles from my shoulders to where he halted. "Do not worry so, Little Lotte. They share your good nature and politeness in every way possible. And, come what may, we shall both be there to support them."

I nodded and let him pull me back into his arms, not daring to tell him that I was actually so worried because Erik's reply was three weeks overdue.

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

I tapped my pen against my chin, staring out of the bedroom window. Five weeks since I'd last written. Over a month ago. And still nothing.

Perhaps he had grown bored of our correspondence, bored of laughing at my childish love letters? Or perhaps he knew more of loyalty than I and was thinking of the children? Had he not once told me about the man his mother courted when he was a child, and of the divide that grew and grew between them as her relationship progressed? Were my children not the same age as he had been during those times? Was it possible that he feared they would feel as he did should their mother be too involved with another man?

Or was I just clinging to a fantasy, the assumption he would always be at my beck and call?

I dipped my pen. One last try. One more time. I would wait just one day more.

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

God heard my prayers that night as I begged for a sign of Erik's wellbeing, of his very existence, for the next morning at breakfast, Caitlin presented me with a letter.

I brought it to my room that afternoon and simply looked at it for a moment or two. It was real! After such a long wait, I was no longer dreaming of holding such a letter!

My only concern was that the address was not written in Erik's childish scrawl, but in a finer, neater hand, an educated one, with slight curves to the ends of the letters. My name was not written in a hasty rush of excitement as usual, but in an elegant cursive which jogged a very distant memory.

The words _**PRIVATE**_ __and _ **URGENT**_ __were written across the top, double underlined for emphasis. I heard myself draw a sharp breath at that. Was Erik alright? I sliced the envelope open and removed the contents with a shaking hand.

 _To the Hon. Christine de Changy._  
 _I will make my greetings short, for there are urgent matters at hand that must be discussed. Please, sit down if you are not already, my good lady._  
 _I know all about your correspondence with my friend, Erik. He has spoken of nothing else for three months now. It is with this in mind, that I feel I must write to you to explain his lack of reply. Listen carefully to everything I have to say, for his life depends on it._

"Christine?"

I jumped in my seat and turned to face Raoul as he stood in the doorway.

"Raoul, I-"

"Is everything alright?"

I swallowed and stared back at the letter, which I'd read four times now and was still unable to understand completely.

"No," I whispered, standing from my seat and clutching the letter. "Send for the carriage, Raoul. I must leave for Paris. _Immediately_."


	10. Chapter 10

The clacking of the horse's shoes against the street slowed until they halted altogether. I clutched the letter and fixed my bonnet as the footman hurried to open my door. I climbed out, using his hand to get down safely, and looked around at my surroundings.

I'd never before stepped foot in the Rue Rivoli, but it was as fine as the stories made it out to be. I knew the address of the apartment I was heading to off by heart, but that didn't make actually _finding_ it any easier.

The grandeur of the high buildings made me feel as small as I had when I'd stood at the bottom of the cliffs by the seasides of my childhood. Still, there was no time to waste staring at the apartments of the wealthy, for time was the one thing I was running out of rapidly.

I hurried along the street to the correct flat, stopping to ask for directions on a few occasions. Up and down the street I went, searching for and scanning every residence number I could find. When at last I managed to locate the right building, there were several flights of stairs to contend with, which were no mean feat for a panicking lady in a corset and travelling dress.

Red in the face, I rapped at a random door and begged for the apartment of the former Daroga of Mazenderan. The servant who came to my aid hung back slightly, an element of fear crossing his eyes. Only when I expressed the urgency of the situation did he point across the hall and down a little way to another door, then shut his own in my face.

I ran across the corridor to that door and hammered upon it with my parasol.

"Daroga!" I cried, trying the handle. "Daroga, open this door! In the name of Raoul de Changy, open it!"

The lock clicked and the door slid open by a few inches to reveal a stout, middle-aged man in an astrakhan cap. I stared back, my hands falling to my sides.

"I'm sorry. I'm Christine Daae," I said, trying to force some composure back into my voice. The man nodded and stepped aside, opening the door wide for me. "Thank you."

I stepped inside, met with the warmth of a fire in a grate by the wall, and untied my bonnet. The quiet servant took my cloak from my shoulders and my bonnet, moving to take them through to the little cloakroom just off to the left. It was a cosy little apartment. From where I was standing, I could see through into the next room beneath a little archway, where a table and two chairs stood before a window.

The servant returned and gestured towards that next room. I followed where he led, stepping into the sunlight. He turned again towards a door in the far wall, his footsteps deadened against the floorboards, much like a phantom in his own right.

"Is he...?" I could hardly bear to finish, but gestured to the closed door. The servant nodded and knocked quietly.

The shuffling of feet from the other side only made my heart beat faster than it already was. I clenched my hands in a fit of nerves, hearing the crinkle of paper too late; the letter was well and truly ruined by my fidgeting by now.

The door creaked open and a pair of sparkling green eyes met mine from the shadows of the darkened room; the curtains had been drawn, keeping what looked like a bedroom in eternal night but for the rays that brushed over the floorboards beneath the window.

"Wait here," a voice said. "He is not wearing his mask."

I waited with the servant, who I could only assume was Darius, and tried to enquire after his wellbeing. Darius, however, lifted his finger to his lips and didn't speak a word of a reply.

The other man slipped out of the room at last, shutting the door behind him quietly.

"Madame de Changy," he whispered. I offered my hand and let him kiss it quickly, before he turned to the servant and dismissed him in that same whisper. "I'm afraid we must be very quiet. Darius has not spoken for almost ten days now in fear of disturbing _him_."

"Tell me, is he alright?" I stressed, barely managing to keep my voice to the lows he asked. "The letter you wrote, I... I came as soon as I could."

He nodded and stepped away from the door. "He knows you are here, Madame, I have just told him so. Darius and I have been doing as much as we can to help him. Some of my neighbours are convinced a curse has fallen over this house and have either moved away or keep their distance from here. He is quite unwell. You must try not to be alarmed."

"But will he live?" I pestered, aching to open the door and enter the dark room.

The Daroga hesitated. Then, as gently as a fawn, he said, "I think, Madame, it would be wise for you to say your goodbyes."

With that, he opened the door for me, bowed, and left me to enter by myself. I drew a deep breath, fighting tears and plucking up my courage.

"Erik?" I whispered, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind me with a soft thud and click. There came no reply, just the swishing of curtains by the open window and the occasional, whispy breaths from the bed by the far wall. When my eyes finally adjusted to the dimness of the room, I made out the shape of a figure lying in the bed, their chest rising and falling occasionally.

I crossed the room, feeling the soft rugs beneath my feet, and found the edge of the bed. His breathing came in short spurts, dragged from deep in his throat. My eyes were adjusting every second, and now I saw the parting between his thin lips, the only part his mask left bare, from where he was heaving each breath.

"Oh, Erik..."

I sat on the edge of the bed and lifted his thin, bony hand onto my leg, stroking the back of it for my comfort as much as his. His head turned on the pillow, but I didn't see the amber that would indicate he was looking at me.

He drew a deep breath. "Christine..." It broke my heart to hear my name shatter in his throat.

"Shhh." I reached to stroke his thin, grey hair and he sighed. "I'm here, Erik."

"Here..." he mumbled. "You came... came to see your Angel?"

"Yes."

"You'll be late... for re..." He coughed slightly and sank back into the pillow. "Late for rehearsal..."

I worried at my lip and stroked his hand with my thumb again, as I did when Christopher or Philippe awoke from a nightmare and needed to be soothed back to sleep. "Rehearsal?"

" _Faust_..." he mumbled again, swallowing and trying to damp his throat. "Marguerite..."

Was this what Daroga meant in the letter he said Erik was dying? I swallowed a forming lump in my throat and held back my tears. Erik did not need my pity, or my sorrow.

"I have rehearsed today," I said, hoping that playing his game of make believe would make him feel better. "I sang the Jewel Song."

"Wonderful..." he murmured. "We will... we will astonish Paris..."

"And they will all hear your creation," I whispered, bringing his hand to my throat.

But instead of smiling or asking me to sing as I'd imagined, Erik gave a cry of horror and snatched his hand back, his eyes opened wide all of a sudden and staring at me, glowing fires which could only be seen in the darkness of this room.

"No!" he yelped, turning away in the bed, an action so violent he began to splutter and choke. I froze in horror as he kicked against the bedsheets. "No! Leave me be!"

"Erik!"

"I beseech you, Your Highness! I will murder no more, not for you, nor for any of your court!" He coughed again, a sound that reminded me of a carpenter sanding down wood, whom I'd watched at work in my younger years.

"Erik," I said again, catching his shoulder and turning him back to me. "Are you alright?"

His eyes found mine, knocking more breath from my body than if he'd smacked me in the stomach.

"Don't make me go back, Nadir..." he whispered, clutching my hand.

"You're not going back to Persia," I whispered, stroking his hair again and finally understanding what he was saying. "Look around, Erik. You're safe. I'm here."

 _"Christine..."_ he said, drawing his breaths quicker now. "You'll be... late for rehearsal..."

I didn't say anything to that. Was this how the Phantom of the Opera would go? He'd just slip away in a fit of madness? After surviving what he had, there was no magnificent death scene, no epic battle? How had a man of so many things come to such a pitiful and quiet end?

It was only then that I remembered the gift I'd brought him.

"Erik," I whispered, reaching into the bag of provisions I'd carried with me and fishing something from the depths. "Look at this."

The picture was by no means easy to see in the darkness, but I had faith that Erik's sight, trained by the hardship of the years, would not fail him.

He took the frame in shaking, gaunt hands and studied it quietly. I saw how his eyes locked first upon Christopher, the beaming child taking over the photograph with delight and childishness, and then Philippe, who sat with a smaller, politer smile, elegantly poised. A tear rolled down his cheek as I pointed out which twin was which.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his voice broken within his throat. He clutched the picture to his chest, letting more tears flow. "Oh, my good, beautiful Christine. They are perfect. Perfect Angels!"

Erik coughed again. I edged up on the bed until I sat back against the headboard and lifted his head into my lap. He gave a long breath, relaxing as my fingers combed through his hair.

"My Christine," he whispered, stroking the frame with all the tenderness of a father holding his newborn, as if he were scared to touch the faces of my children. "Raoul... Raoul is by far the... the luckiest man... on earth..."

We sat like that for some time, me humming various ballads and soft tunes as he slipped in and out of consciousness, in and out of deliriousness. Occasionally he'd remember where he was and thank me for being with him, but more often than not, he'd have fallen back into the past and I could only wait for him to catch up again.

"More vibrato," he whispered as I hummed my way through The Flower Duet from a recently-debuted opera, _Lakmé._ Though it called for some quick and high parts, I did my best to keep it down, allowing myself to sing some of the quieter parts, which Erik seemed to relish in.

" _Brava, Marie_ ," he whispered, and I was made to remember that I was not the only prima donna. Of course, he had probably been at the Opéra Comique for the premiere of _Lakmé_ and had no doubt quietly congratulated the cast from his seat. He was, I realised, reliving various memories. " _Bravissima, Delibes..._ "

The song came to an end and Erik wriggled like a child until I began another. I sang for what seemed like hours until the Daroga entered quietly and asked me to keep my voice down for Erik's health.

He'd promptly scurried from the room at his patient's... loud _objection._

"Christine," Erik whispered, "Christine, open... open the curtains..."

I froze for a moment, glancing at them. "Are you sure? Daroga said-"

"Ignore the Daroga. I care not a whit... for his foolish 'treatments'. Please, Christine. I wish to see the daylight."

My heart tugged on its strings at that and I slipped his head from my lap to stand, resting him back into a comfortable position and tiptoeing across to the window. One bit at a time, I drew back the curtains, letting the light seep into the room like the dawn swept over the earth. Erik sat, watching as the sunlight lit his little room, watching _me_ as I turned back to him.

He smiled. "Ah, Christine..."

I crept back and climbed back onto the bed, letting him rest his head on my shoulder.

"Thank you, my Angel," he whispered. "I've missed... the daylight."

"You'll be alright, Erik," I replied, pressing a kiss to his head, at which he froze against me. "You'll be well in no time. I'm here."

"Yes, Christine... forbid me to die..." He fell a little heavier against me and I caught my lip between my teeth to stop a cry, though tears crept out down my cheeks all the same. "Oh, Christine... you sang so beautifully tonight... the Angels wept..."

I cradled his head and upper back, moving so I was no longer on the bed and could lay him back down, though I drew a chair up and sat holding his hand.

"Your soul is a beautiful thing," I whispered.

"Late... for rehearsal..." he said again, his head beginning to roll to one side. "But... but you will come back, won't you? Yes, yes you will return... return to your Angel for him to congratulate you..."

He drew a long breath and let it go. A few more tears rolled down my cheek when he clutched my hand.

"Such a wonderful voice... and someday, I shall hear you sing just for me... no lies, no mirrors... and we shall be happy. Erik shall be happy at last... A living bride... living... _living_ bride... to take for walks on... Sunday afternoons like... like any other man..."

I could bear it no longer. He was fading like the sunlight faded in a winter evening, and I was simply sitting there, waiting for him to go out like a light.

I reached for his mask, slipping my fingers beneath it and starting to lift. Erik clutched my other hand tighter.

"You are in no danger... so long... as you do not touch the mask."

"Erik, let me-"

" _No_... no stop."

"But I could look at your face-"

"No, I ask you please..." His eyes opened once more and found mine. "Stop."

But I couldn't. I was running out of time, _Erik's_ time. I had maybe just a few minutes left to show him a slice of care the world had to offer, to show him the care _I_ had to offer.

I lifted his mask off, and when he tried to cower away, I caught his chin and drew him back to me. An element of fear settled on my heart - how could it not? - but I refused to show any of it. He was a sight worse than death, even more so at his age than before.

Tired shadows had worn away at the thin skin beneath his eyes, which had sagged further than I'd thought possible, emphasising the sharp bones that carved out his face. His eyes, which seemed to have sunk deeper into his skull than before, gazed back at me, fearful, hopeful, full of love and admiration. The bones on his jaw stuck out much more, as did his ribs beneath his nightgown and his forehead. His hair, once dark and thick, was thin and a sickly grey now. I'd have sworn he'd aged fifteen years instead of five if I didn't know any better.

This poor creature, who'd been deprived of love from day one and who'd grown to hate the world which first hated him. He'd reached for the heights of beauty in desperation, only to wonder why he fell each time, like an icharus desperate for the heat of the sun. He lay there against the pillow before me now, a pitiful sight for anyone to behold. My heart tugged on its strings for him, the man I'd loved, then hated, and had now come to forgive.

I stooped over him and Erik groaned softly as my lips reached down to meet his. He froze beneath me, rigid as I kissed him. It was wrong, I knew. The villian should never be kissed by the princess. No fairytale my father ever told me ended like this. I had married my Prince Charming and given him two fine heirs. Yet here I was kissing the villain, the man we'd fought so hard to run from, in a bid to make him happy on his death bed.

I pulled away after a few moments and stroked his horrible face, hating how my fingers ran over the bumps and crevasses nature had struck him with.

"Are you alright?" I whispered. He managed to open his eyes, and when they met mine again, he smiled and reached up to wipe away the tears I didn't realise I was crying.

"My letter," he croaked, his voice barely audible in the depths of his throat. "My last letter... is on the dresser."

I made to stand back up to fetch it, but Erik didn't let my hand go. I nodded and sat back down.

"Thank you... my Angel," he whispered, his eyes fluttering to a close. "Thank you... I have tasted all the happiness in the world... thanks to you... ah, my Christine..."

I nodded, battling sobs before he could distress over me. Erik sighed once more, never to inhale again.

It was done. His suffering was finished at long, long last, after fifty-five years.

The curtains fluttered in the breeze, the sunlight streaming over his face. I squeezed his limp hand again, finally allowing myself to cry into his shoulder and replace his mask. In the street below, the sound of a violin drifted through the open window.


	11. Epilogue

**From the perspective of the former Daroga of Persia, 17th June, 1901.**

"You say these are the letters from the Ghost to Christine Daae?"

"Every one of them, Monsieur. Is this all you need from an old man?"

The reporter nods and stands, reaching to shake my hand. "An honour, Monsieur," he says. "I assure you they will be safe with me."

I nod, turning away to stare out of the window and the reporter shows himself out; Darius died three years ago and had worked faithfully to his dying breath.

I watch as that reporter gets into his cab in the street below. For a moment, he glances back up at the apartment and our eyes meet. And then he is gone, along with Erik and Christine's letters, and various other artefacts from the monster's life.

Despite myself, I can't help but smile. It has been fifteen years since Erik died, yet I still hear his voice reprimanding me for giving away his prized possessions to a random reporter. And yet, I wouldn't have cared a dot if he had been alive to strangle me to my grave. I knew reporters enough to know that my Erik would never truly die. He will live on in the stories I'd relayed to that fellow, I know it. I am unsure _how_ I know it, but I simply do.

I hadn't heard anything from Christine de Changy until a few weeks ago, when she'd returned Erik's final letter by post, with nothing else in the envelope and no return address. Her son, Christopher de Changy, had recently debuted his first work on Garnier's stage, met with an eager excitement for more of this young composer's intense, dark work; the poor man had never been the same since the death of his brother, Philippe de Changy, who was struck down by a carriage late one night as he travelled home from his office, where he worked as a lawyer. Thus, Christopher's work was always deeply moving and seemingly pulled from the dark instruments of Hell itself.

Raoul de Changy had all but disappeared from history, taking his wife with him, no doubt retreating into a burrow of grief somewhere up north, as far away from Paris as they could get. He'd discovered Christine's correspondence the day Erik died. She'd returned home that evening to find her husband waiting for her at the gate to the House with a look of thunder spread over his face; he'd found every one of her letters (thanks to her son) and had demanded an explanation, only cooling off, my driver said, when she burst into tears in his arms and relayed the terrible afternoon's events.

Erik's funeral had been a simple affair, with just Christine and I in attendance to bury the creature. I never again saw her in the flesh once she left that day, and made no attempt to seek her out.

It was a tragic tale from birth to death, faith lost from the moment Erik's mother had seen her child. And yet, even as an old, old man, I have hope. I sit back in my chair and think about that reporter, trusting that Erik will never be forgotten but remembered as a man who was damned from the start.

If not that, he will make quite the villain! One must be content with what one can receive these days.

I chuckle and return to reading my copy of this morning's newspaper. Quite the villain indeed.

Ah, Erik. If only you could have told him your story yourself. No doubt we will meet again. I look forward to it, my dear friend. I look forward to it indeed.

 _ **The End.**_


End file.
